


Served Hot

by marksmanfem



Series: Boondock Saints OC Arc [16]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Flirting, Massage, Multi, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem





	Served Hot

I think I might need a new job.

For the last couple of weeks, every day at work has decided it needs to make a bid for the title of “Worst Day Ever.” We’re going through restructuring, refinancing, re-everything, and I’m running double time just to cover what everyone else is missing. My supervisor Jenny has me hopping between two very large projects as well as editing two more and advising on half a dozen others, and I am mentally wrung out. On top of that, while I did get some sleep last night, it was not exactly what I’d call restful. I’m tired, I’m aching, I’m cranky as hell, and all I want in the whole world right now is to drop everything, change into comfy clothes, and eat something for the first time in maybe twelve hours. 

Oh, and hot chocolate. I’d really like some hot chocolate.

And while I will NOT admit this to either of the idiots I’m hopelessly devoted to, I would really like nothing better than to burrow in between the two of them and melt happily into a sex-drunken stupor. But after their assholishness yesterday (and the insanely wonderful, cut-off-far-too-soon dream I had last night that kept my sleep from actually being worth the time and effort), my nerves are on edge, and I can only think of a couple of ways to soothe them, both of which I’d rather do at home in my king size bed.

So, of course, we’re going out.

Or, to be more accurate, the boys are already out, and I’m listening to a series of increasingly insistent and obnoxious messages on my answering machine telling me they expect me at McGinty’s no more than an hour after I’m done with work, or they will scour the entirety of South Boston to find me. Sadly, I have no doubt whatsoever they will follow through on their threat and drag me kicking and screaming down to the bar, despite the fact that I specifically told them to leave me alone until I decided whether I wanted to go out. 

I really should get my spare key back from them.

I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least the three of us finally all have a night off together. Of course, we had last night off together, as well, and that turned out the opposite of fun.

I change from my work clothes into my softest, oldest jeans and toss on a sweater and some zip-up ankle boots. Since they’re already giving me shit, they get absolutely no effort on my part. 

I linger by the couch for a moment, staring longingly at the firm yet pliable pillows and the afghan draped invitingly over the back before sighing and giving in to the inevitable. I pocket some cash and grab my coat, keys, and ID. I don’t feel like lugging my purse to the bar; there’s never anywhere I feel comfortable leaving it when I get there, so I end up holding the damn thing the whole time. Locking the door behind me, I turn and trudge wearily down several flights of stairs and back out into the falling snow.

I’ve been hanging out at McGinty’s for a while now, so it’s no surprise when I get as warm a welcome as the boys usually do. Not that I ever got a cold reception; the opposite, actually. But these days there’s more backslaps than ass-grabs…mostly. 

I scan the crowded room for Connor and Murphy, frowning when I don’t spot them right away. I swear, if they’re playing some sort of hide-and-seek, scare-the-shit-out-of-me prank tonight, they will pay. I am so not in the mood.

While my eyes are scanning and my brain is grumbling, my feet and legs have time to realize I’ve been on them all day while running around putting out fires (one of them literally, because some people don’t understand the concept of “don’t microwave metal”). My lower extremities have just begun complaining in earnest when I spot Rocco at the other end of the bar next to an empty stool. I muster my last reserves of energy and manage to awkwardly limp-shuffle (Shimp? Luffle?) to the vacant seat.

I collapse onto the stool next to my shaggy friend, and he helps drag my sorry ass properly up onto my seat. Rocco and I have developed a very strong, platonic bond over the last few months, partially born of the intense teasing and harassment we receive courtesy of the MacManus brothers. Granted, the teasing I get tends to be a bit more personal and, er…let’s say lewd, while what Rocco receives is a bit ruder and more physical. Still, the empathy is there.

Plus, Rocco really just gets me most of the time. And he pays for my desserts when we go out for our now semi-regular bitch fests about “Things That Suck.”

My head drops exhaustedly onto my arms. My hair, having given up hours ago on staying in its braid, flops on the bar in a halo around my head, shutting out most of the light and hushing the sounds of the room. Sweet, muffled bliss. It’s almost as good as a white noise machine. 

Sadly, my sanctuary doesn’t last long, and I grumble in protest when I feel Rocco sweep my hair off the bar and onto my back. I’m still not sitting up, though; too much effort involved. I almost change my mind when Roc shoves something squashy and crinkly between my face and my arms. Then I take in a good, deep breath.

It. Smells. Like. Nirvana. (The state of being, not the band)

I tilt my head just enough to peek questioningly up at him, my eyebrows raised. Surely this manna from heaven (alright, sandwich from Rocco) must be intended for someone else since he’s just carrying it around; of course, there’s also the unspoken question of just how long he’s been carrying it around, but that’s beside the point until I find out who this chunk of ecstasy is actually meant for. Rocco’s grin is smug, and he doesn’t even glance at me as he nurses his beer. He knows what I’m going to ask.

“Ran errands all day, including pickin’ up a late lunch for a bunch of the guys. Accidentally got an extra Reuben, and I figured didn’t make sense to throw it away…Somebody’d want it. Then Connor and Murph started harassing your voicemail, and,” he paused, flashing a pleased smile at me this time, “I figured you hadn’t eaten since before you went to work, as usual…So I had a fuckin’ genius moment and decided the sandwich was meant for you.

I gaze in absolute wonder and adoration at the shaggiest angel ever to walk the streets of this God-forsaken city, wondering what amazing deeds I could have committed in a past life to deserve such a friend. I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat.

“Roc…No one… (swallow) No one gets me like you. I swear, right now…to me…You. Are. Beautiful.”

He shrugs, embarrassed by this sudden shower of emotional praise, then glances at me; a grin splits his face, his teeth shining white amidst his beard and mustache. “Are you cryin’? Geez, woman, it’s just a fuckin’ sandwich.”

“No!” I mutter quickly, dashing the back of my hand across my eyes. “My allergies are haywire right now. All this dry heat from the heaters. That’s why I’m sniffling so much. Hey, Doc!” The old man glances up from the other end of the bar where he’s retrieving more pint glasses. “Rocco’s on me for the rest of the night,” I call as Rocco mutters confusedly something about allergies in the middle of December. At my declaration, his face lights up with anticipation, and I happily rip through the deli paper, way more than excited about the prospect of food than I really should be.

Which is, of course, the exact moment that Veritas himself pops into existence from absolutely nowhere right beside me and plops a shot down on the bar in front of me.

I pause an inch from the sandwich, mouth parted idiotically around the bread, before shrugging and proceeding to chow down anyway despite the interruption. So Connor likes to make an entrance…Doesn’t mean I have to pay a bit of attention to him, especially when it means denying myself the first access I’ve had to food since breakfast.

Does make me wonder where Aequitas has gotten off to, though…

“I’ll have t’assume since Roc is on ye fer th’rest of th’night that yer otherwise occupied this evenin’…Does that mean y’won’t be enjoyin’ th’pleasure of our company, then?” Murphy’s voice is low, smooth as whiskey, and right in my ear. I’m not expecting it to be that close, and I yelp in shock, flinching in the opposite direction and smacking hard right into Connor, who catches me as if he knows I’m coming.

And since I’m ninety-nine percent sure he and Murphy have planned this sneak attack, he most likely did.

Connor rights me on my stool as I clutch my sandwich in a death grip, panting as if I’ve just run the Boston Marathon. My heart is hammering some sort of tribal rhythm, and I know my eyes are bigger than dinner plates. Then the thought of dinner plates sets my stomach muttering in annoyance again…So hungry…

I’m so tired and startled that it takes me nearly thirty seconds to remember I’m holding actual food and don’t have to stay hungry. I glower at each twin in turn, ignoring their laughter. They should be thanking Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that I didn’t drop this damned sandwich. How do they always manage to scatter me so badly? 

As I grumble and work my way hungrily through my sandwich, Connor casually runs his fingers along the back of my neck, just under the edge of my jacket collar. I have a brief, intense flashback to my dream from the night before, and visions of two sets of hands working magic on various parts of my body begin to swarm through my brain. The reflexive clenching of my fingers is echoed with the delicious throb in my lower belly, and I let out a short, shivering breath as I try to wrench my thoughts back to the present.

Connor arms snake around my shoulders from behind, pulling my back tightly against his front, and I suddenly get the nudging feeling that even if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m thinking, he might be having similar thoughts right now. I mean, I haven’t spent the night with either of the boys in a while, and we do all have needs, and…

No. NO. Strong. Stay strong. And righteously angry. I mean, it’s not like they’ve apologize for anything they did yesterday. So, yeah. I can totally hold out against them. All night. While being flirted with. And seduced. And given shots…

Oh, God, I’m so screwed.

I feel his breath warming my wind-bitten cheeks, and a thrill of anticipation rolls straight down my spine. I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t help myself, and I twist slowly to look at Connor, finding his face inches from my own as I swivel in his arms. His eyes are piercing and dark in the dim light of the bar, so it’s hard to tell exactly what color they are right now; however, what I can tell is that his gaze is fixed pointedly and hungrily on me. 

He’s smiling, and while his smile is as mischievous and inviting as it always is, it’s also just a tad predatory tonight. I gulp as another bolt of lightning runs down the middle of my back and straight to my pelvis.

Connor shifts his grip on me, hands roaming teasingly under my coat. I’m still staring frozenly at him, his eyes holding me locked in place as his fingers ghost over the skin of my lower back. My hunger is momentarily forgotten as he leans forward, his lips brushing the most sensitive part of my ear.

“Ye sure dat sandwich is all yer hungry for jus’ now, girl? Could find a dark corner somewhere, a quiet spot…been thinkin’ on our date at dat little Italian place, feelin’ kinda nostalgic, if ye catch m’meanin’.”

My heart manages a new crescendo as his lips travel gently from my ear across my cheek and come to rest just at the corner of my mouth, and I absolutely melt. I can’t stay mad at them. I remember exactly which date Connor is talking about, and I can’t say I’d refuse a bit of reminiscing…

I finally give in and turn into the kiss when Connor abruptly pulls away. 

“But ye seem busy now, so maybe a rain check, aye lass?”

Do what, now? Am…am I going crazy? Did he really just…?

Connor straightens up, grinning that shit-eating, patented cocky MacManus grin and pats me on top of the head. I swear I almost implode right there. I gave up eating the best sandwich of my life for this juvenile, sexual torture? 

If there were a female version of blue balls, I can’t even count the number of times he or Murphy has found it hilarious to wind me up tighter than anyone’s business while we’re at McGinty’s so they can feel all manly and desirable once we get back to their place and I jump one or the other of them (sometimes before we make it back). Last night, however, I snapped well before we reached the point of leaving together and simply left both of their annoying asses in the diner. I was so fed up, wound up, and utterly frustrated that I ended up having one of the best dreams of my life only to be interrupted by my alarm clock at the most maddening point possible.

So, this…this is too much. 

Wondering if there’s a term for the opposite-sex equivalent of a cock tease, I stiffen and straighten myself on my stool, squaring my shoulders against Connor.

He grins at Murphy over my head and cheerfully responds, “Shouldn’t startle our girl so badly, Murph, y’know she can’t think straight when she hasn’t eaten all day. Cranky as hell, too,” he adds when I glare daggers at him, tearing into my sandwich and imagining it’s his head. They throw cute little comments like this back and forth for a few minutes, alluding to Rocco’s “lucky break” and my crappy, low-blood-sugar judgment skills until poor Roc is redder than the corned beef on my Reuben. 

I reached my bullshit limit for the day about twenty-four hours ago, and although he’s grinning good-naturedly, I know Rocco isn’t going to defend himself. I clear my throat at them. When that has no effect whatsoever, I glance quickly at both boys, judging their positions in relationship to mine. They’re enjoying Rocco’s discomfort so much they don’t pay a bit of attention when I crumple my empty deli wrapper, straighten up as I brush the crumbs from my hands, and reach behind both of them, stretching my sore, tired muscles.

They do notice, of course, when I slap them both hard in the backs of their smug little heads. Murphy’s sunglasses fly off the top of his head where they’ve been resting and land in the pitcher of draft Doc is pulling for the guys sitting at the other end of the bar. 

Rocco, who’s been doing his best to take their teasing with good grace, chokes on the beer he’s in the process of swallowing, and Connor and Murphy both let out pained, indignant, and decidedly UN-manly squawks of – let’s face it— near-feminine outrage. 

“Th’fuck was that for, woman?!?” 

I’m laughing so hard at this point – as is most of the rest of the bar—that I can’t even tell which of them is talking to me, and I have to grab the counter to keep from hitting the floor. Tears are streaming down my face, and I can’t remember when I’ve laughed this hard. It’s been such a long week, and they both sounded so, so very absurd.

When I finally calm down enough to remember to breathe, I glance at the boys, wiping my eyes and grinning. I know I’ve done no real damage; there’s no way I can hurt skulls that thick. They’re both pouting ridiculously, and I have absolutely no intentions of letting either of them off the hook yet.

“Seriously? You two actually feel like you’re the injured parties here?” I say, looking at each of them in turn as they mulishly scowl back and rub their heads. I may not be a school teacher, but damned if I don’t have the look down. 

“I specifically told you both yesterday not to contact me until I’d had a chance to cool down and call you first. I get home to find my answering machine full – FULL – of you two informing—not asking—me that we’re going out, or you will find me and drag me back here like a couple of demented Irish cavemen.”

They both have the grace to look a little sheepish, though slightly pleased with themselves, at this. I decide they don’t look nearly repentant enough, so I go on.

“I’ve had no food all day. I’m just off my third fourteen hour shift in as many days, and while I know you two beauty queens can handle that much work, that little sleep, and still look like freakin’ Prada models, but not all of us are naturally that well-adjusted.”

Murphy looks like he’s going to speak up just then, but Connor’s elbow in Murphy’s ribs shuts him up before he can make that mistake.

“Then you proceed to badger both me and Rocco, who by the way is the only reason both that I am still here right now instead of jumping some poor hot dog vender on a street corner somewhere and that you two still have testicles to speak of. And on top of all that, you have the nerve to act like whiny-ass little bitches the moment I manage to get an ounce of payback for me and Roc compared to the ocean of shit we put up with from the both of you?”

The whole bar is silent as they wait for the boys’ response. I swear, I think Doc might even be holding his breath a little. The regulars here are nothing if not drama fans. The brothers glance at each other, then at me, then back at each other. Without any preamble, Murphy throws his arm around Rocco’s shoulder and plants a huge, smacking kiss on the Italian man’s highly embarrassed cheek.

“Tis only that I’m so jealous of all th’attention yer givin’ our girl dere, Roc, bringin’ her sandwiches an’ all. S’me dat wants t’be on ye, ‘stead o’you on our lass. Give us a kiss!” Everybody, including Rocco, explodes in laughter as Murphy does his best to climb into his friend’s lap. He tries to get another kiss in, his arms wrapped tight around the shaggier man’s neck as Rocco makes futile attempts to shove him off.

Connor takes advantage of the momentary distraction to settle onto the stool next to me and pull my stool closer until I’m sitting between his legs. Gathering my back to his chest, he leans forward and brushes a much more tender kiss across my cheek this time, murmuring, “‘M sorry ‘bout b’fore, lass, ‘n about las’ night. Shouldn’t’ve tried t’get a rise outta ye like that, not after th’week ye’ve had. Yer not truly pissed, are ya?”

I seriously consider letting him have it one last time (Lord knows he deserves it), but my anger deflates suddenly. It’s hard to keep up righteous indignation when I’m warm, full, and surrounded by Connor. Besides, I really am beat. I yawn, stretching, and pull off my coat, deciding it’s too hot inside for December-in-Boston-grade outer wear. 

Before I can rise to hang it on the coat rack, Connor snags a passing regular, and my coat is hung up for me. He’s grinning at me again, a hopeful, little-boy type grin that says he feels he should win a few points back for this, and I can’t help but crack a little smile in return. I don’t have the heart—or the energy—to keep up my frustration with him and Murph.

They really are just too damn cute for my own good.

Connor signals Doc for a round of drinks and downs his with a quick salute (I notice out of the corner of my eye that while Murphy isn’t even looking in Connor’s direction, he salutes and downs his at the same time—how do they do that?) as I paw through my pockets, yawning again and searching for my mints. Sauerkraut and corned beef do not for good breath make.

His hands spread slowly over my shoulder blades, hard and warm and strong, as I pop a couple of Altoids. He works lazy, soothing circles into my muscles, and I’m humming contentedly and crunching on my mints as Murphy drags a stool on my other side, placing himself between me and Roc. 

Giving me a side-long glance, Murphy takes in my half-open eyes, my sprawled-out posture, and my near-comatose state. His gaze is speculative and a little wary, and I figure he’s wondering if I’m planning another attack or if he’s safe for now.

“The inner bitch is leashed, Murph,” I drawl sleepily, basking in Connor’s attention. “I’ll only bite on request now.” Rocco looks up hopefully at this, and without even looking, Murphy reaches over and slaps him in the back of the head. 

Ignoring his friend’s pained expletive, Murphy flashes me the trademark MacManus smirk, then orders a round of shots for all four of us. I toss back my drink, then push up on my stool, leaning back towards Connor’s ear. The bar has mostly settled back down to normal, noise-wise, but it is still an Irish pub on a Friday night. Connor leans forward to ease my stretch and hear me better.

“I don’t know how much I can manage tonight,” I murmur in his ear. I can see the smirk emerging on his face before I’m even done speaking, and I elbow him sharply in the gut. He huffs out a good-natured, “Ooof,” as I retort, “Alcohol, ass. I’m tired, and I haven’t eaten much today.” I pause, then dejectedly remind him, “You know no one likes it when I get sick.”

Finally revealing the sweetness that I knew was in there somewhere (though he probably has to dig pretty deep tonight), Connor has mercy on me, most likely remembering just how pitiful I can be on the rare occasions when I hit the wrong combination of drinking and lack of food. 

He pulls me flush against his chest once more, moving his massage from my upper back to my neck and shoulders. His fingers spread heat and bliss almost everywhere they touch (and a few places kind of far away from where he’s currently touching, as well).

He murmurs, “Alright, girl. No more’n you c’n handle t’night, then. Leastways, when it comes to drink.” The promise in his voice practically closes my eyes for me, and I savor the sweet anticipation that floods over me. 

How much longer are we staying here, again?

Connor decides at this point that we all need to move our party over to the corner table that’s suddenly become available, and after some coaxing and promises of continued massaging, I drag my tired ass across the room and plant myself firmly between Connor and Murphy on the bench seat against the wall. I nudge Connor until he turns, propping one leg on the bench so I can sit between his legs once more.

Turning sideways, I shove my back subtly against Connor’s hands, ignoring his snickering as I unzip my boots. Murphy glances sideways at me when I drop my socked feet in his lap, but all it takes are two pleading eyes and generous pout before he, too, falls under my seductive spell.

Oh, why, WHY can’t they be like this all the time? I know I appreciate how they’re acting now all the more because I have to put up with their immaturity, but I swear on my life I would appreciate them plenty if they were this sweet on a permanent basis.

Just then, Connor does something magical with his hands to the absolute worst spot of soreness and tension, right where my neck meets the base of my skull, and every muscle in my neck and shoulders liquefies. 

It feels as if simultaneously most of the soreness and stiffness in the upper half of my body have leaked out while most of my blood has rushed immediately to the lower half. My back arches away from him, and my thighs clamp involuntarily against the sudden, sharp throb in between them.

Then his fingers repeat whatever miracle they just wrought, and I let out a moan that would make any porn star proud. Murphy’s head whips around so fast that if I weren’t already so preoccupied I’d swear I could hear a whooshing noise. As it is, however, I’m doing my best not to have the makings of a soft core porn starting in McGinty’s, so I miss the rest of his reaction as I try to relax myself back against my living massage chair. 

His eyes never leaving my face, Murphy shifts under my legs, repositioning himself before starting in more intently on my arches. I’m strung out between my two boys, practically drunk on sensation, even as Rocco drops a tray loaded down with more alcohol on the table. I accept another shot, my tingling fingers barely able to hold onto the small glass, and let out a long, languid sigh.

I suppose I’ve been in worse positions.

I watch languidly, moving only for a very occasional shot or when Connor nudges me so he can have better access to some part of my neck, shoulders, or back, as Murphy slips a hand inside the ankle of my jeans. His eyes fasten on mine as his fingers trace a smoldering line up to my knee before massaging their way in a deliciously slow circuit down my calf, over and around my entire foot, then back up to my knee before switching to my other leg. 

I stifle a breathy little moan when Murphy hits on the beginnings of a cramp in my left calf, and I don’t think you could remove the smirk from his face now with anything shy of industrial strength. He moves to the outside of my jeans so as to have access to more of my legs, but the fabric is so worn and threadbare in some places as to make the barrier moot.

Every now and then, when Murph thinks I’m not paying attention, his fingers brush feather-light just a little higher on the inside of my thighs, moving back down before I can fully register the sensation. The touch never lasts longer than that fraction of a second, but, lost as I am in Connor’s massage, I still never miss a single caress from Murphy. 

I may appear serene and cozy on the outside, but inside I am writhing and moaning like no one’s business, and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle both of them touching me like this.

My main problem right now is having to constantly remind myself that we are—technically—in public, and as cool as Doc and the McGinty’s crowd usually are, I still don’t want (and I sincerely hope the boys don’t, either) to actually have sex with the Friday night crowd as an audience. Although, judging from the fairly impressive erections current nudging me in my lower back and feet, Connor and Murphy wouldn’t be entirely averse to some personal attention sometime in the near future.

Come to think of it, they probably wouldn’t be averse to getting that attention right here and now. Ever since the incidents in the Italian restaurant and the Gardens, Connor has developed quite an appetite for public sex. On the other side of the coin, Murphy has been feeling a bit miffed that he hasn’t yet gotten to taste the forbidden fruit. 

I’m just happy I’ve never been caught.

Oh. Oh…Oh!

I’ve got one hell of a horribly wonderful idea. God help me when it’s over, but if I can pull this off, it will make up for so much of all the shit Connor and Murphy dish out. I’m definitely going to need liquid courage to work up the proper nerve, but, oh, is it a wickedly lovely idea.

This plan is bound to get me into so much trouble, but I am desperate for a little more payback for the whole bait-and-release bit earlier, not to mention the soaking they gave me and Roc a few weeks ago. And ruining my favorite bra. And all the teasing from yesterday. And all the tormenting we put up with on a regular basis. I glance at each of the boys, considering how best to begin. 

While they’ve not stopped massaging me this whole time, since I’ve been basically half-asleep for the last few minutes, they’ve been able to carry on drinking and talking with Rocco, Doc, and a few other regulars who wander over to the corner every few minutes. I’ve never been much for random conversation, at least not with a room full of people, so it’s not unusual for me to be so quiet. 

Plus, I work long shifts, so it’s not unusual to see me falling asleep on one or the other MacManus at the bar every now and then. In other words, the boys are taking care of me as best they know how, but not paying too much particular attention to what I’m doing.

Perfect.

I do understand that Connor and Murphy are most likely trying their best to make up for earlier. They (probably) have good and mostly honorable intentions for the moment and are trying to make sure that I’m comfortable while we’re here. And I have fairly good intentions in making them pay a little bit for stringing me along earlier and winding me up here where they know I can’t react properly, in addition to my laundry list of other reasons.

So, it looks like all three of us are going to follow that road paved with good intentions, as it were. Because if I’m going down, they’re coming with me.

Taking advantage of the lack of mental attention the boys are paying me (Connor is arguing across the crowded room with Doc about some sort of proverb with Murphy and Rocco alternately laughing and egging them on), I down my next shot quickly, then cat-stretch against Connor. As I link my arms behind his neck, I reposition my feet more comfortably in Murphy’s lap. Slowly, so as not to be obvious, I scoot as far back as I can against 

“Ye a’right, girl, or are ye done wit’ us fer th’night?” I can feel Connor’s smile against my ear, though I think I hear a tiny catch in his voice when I press my ass back against him.

I glance over my shoulder, centimeters from his face, and give him my most pitiful sad eyes. I run my fingers up and down the back of his neck, barely making contact with the tiny hairs just below the base of his skull. His eyes close as he rests his forehead on the top of my head, and his whole body shivers as he sucks in a deep breath. 

I brush a kiss across the corner of his jaw, and his eyes flash down at me. I think it’s just a trick of the light, but his eyes look almost completely black.

And his pupils are definitely dilated.

“Please?” I ask softly. “Five more minutes? I’ll be good, I swear.” He snorts as his hands stray downwards from my shoulders to my collarbone and the base of my throat.

“I’m sure ye will be…jus’ not too good, I hope.” Grinning, I wiggle happily against him for a second, just long enough to elicit a small growl as he continues exploring mostly PG areas with his massaging. I realize that I’ve been rudely overlooking Murphy for the past several minutes, and I decide he needs to participate in the first phase of my payback plan, however unknowing his participation might be.

After all, the boy’s got needs, too.

Deliberately avoiding Murphy’s gaze, I stretch my legs and leisurely slide my feet back and forth in his lap. I actively force myself to keep my line of sight focused anywhere but his face, and I run my toes delicately up and down the inside of his thighs. That gets his attention, and in the corner of my vision, I see him stiffen and glance at me. His eyes narrow as he watches me, but he doesn’t say anything (figured he wouldn’t) as my toes knead the sensitive spot on the inside of his leg near the very top.

Once I have his attention and I’m fairly certain he isn’t going to give me away, I intentionally push the arch of my right foot firmly over the growing bulge under the fly of Murphy’s jeans. 

His nostrils flare, and the toothpick he’s been chewing on drops from his mouth as he twitches. I can practically see his self control ratcheting up a notch. A tiny muscle in his temple spasms when I simultaneously drag my left foot across the top of his erection and slide my right foot along the inside of his thigh. 

His hands have moved from my calves to my ankles, and he seems to be holding on for support more than anything else. His pale skin is visibly flushed, even under the bar lighting. I am secretly gloating and at the same time in complete awe that I can have this effect on not one but two of the sexiest men I’ve ever met. At the same time, no less.

Of course, my plan has the unfortunate drawback that I’m also currently wound tighter than a slinky attached to a power drill. If Connor keeps up his end of this ridiculous massage Conga line, there is a definite danger of me detonating.

But this is war, and if I have to make a few sacrifices for the sake of…Rocco’s…honor, then so be it.

My toes continue their exploration of Murphy’s new “development,” and I decide it’s time to catch his eyes. He swallows hard, and I flash him the tiniest of smirks. I want him to know that I’m doing this on my terms, entirely on purpose, and if he has a problem with it, he’s welcome to try and stop me. 

From his highly aroused, slightly irritated, very promising expression, I’m fairly certain he knows exactly what I’m doing. I’m also one hundred percent certain that I’m going to pay dearly for it later tonight. 

I beam cheerfully at him and shoot him an air kiss. I can practically feel his responding growl through my feet (Irish tempers and all that), but I also notice that despite his thunderous expression, he’s not doing anything to stop me. So, however unwillingly and unknowingly, he’s on board.

Phase Murphy underway. Initiate Phase Connor.

For luck, I lift one more shot from the table and down it quickly, trying to ingest some nerve along with the burn. My eyes flutter shut as I let my head fall back on Connor’s shoulder. My job here is already half done; Connor is very much into what he’s perceiving as “us time,” completely oblivious to Murphy’s end of the situation.

Unlike Murphy, though, Connor doesn’t need to know that what I’m about to do is for revenge’s sake; not until I let him know, that is. I’m pretty sure Murphy won’t give me away simply because he wants to see how far I’ll take this; Connor, on the other hand, does not have his brother’s skill at holding a poker face, so his reveal moment will come later.

Taking a slow, steadying breath and ignoring the blush that’s flooding my cheeks, I shove my reservations and embarrassment aside and begin to leisurely, deliberately grind back against Connor, letting an only partially-forced whimper drift towards his ear. 

I can feel his head shift as he glances down at me, but my eyes are still shut, and I’m apparently lost in alcohol- and sensory-induced bliss. His hands travel up from my ribs, still stroking my skin underneath the bulk of my sweater, and his fingers brush the underside of my breasts, an area he knows damned well is extremely sensitive for me.

Suddenly, my sound effects aren’t nearly as forced. I’m having a lot harder time reminding myself that we’re in public, and I’m finding it a lot easier to forget that I’m supposed to be stringing the boys on, not the other way around.

As Connor continues to skirt the perimeter of my breasts, skimming and teasing with one hand, his other hand slides between us and the table, and I feel his fingers sink firmly into my hip, pulling me in place as he grinds his hips against my back. Oh, god…I think we’re going to find out just how far this slinky can wind before it snaps tonight.

Time to initiate Phase Bait ‘n Switch before I lose all semblance of self-control.

Eyes still tightly closed, I reach up and pull Connor’s face closer to mine, pressing my lips to his ear. 

“Meet me in the women’s bathroom in three minutes. Don’t talk to anyone; just be there and be ready for me with the lights off.” I release him and sit up, scooting forward to release Connor. My sudden movement startles Murphy, though I take care not to move my feet too violently in his lap. 

He pushes my feet off his lap and pulls me closer all in the same motion so that we go from a few feet apart to abruptly nose-to-nose with me practically in his lap. He brushes a light kiss across my lips, but he’s not—quite—smiling.

“Ye gonna tease me t’death while ye give Connor the deluxe treatment over there?”

I grin and kiss the tip of his nose.

“I’m going to be in the women’s bathroom in three minutes. Wait until Connor’s not looking, then go. Be ready for me. If we’re lucky,” I add, leaning down to slide my boots back on, “We’ll have the door locked and be far too busy to stop before he even realizes where we’ve gone.”

He eyes me silently for a moment, once again wary, as I zip my boots up, then he flashes me half of a deliciously deviant smirk. He glances at his brother, then quickly slides off the bench, squeezing between the table and the wall, and disappears into the crowd.

I wait a couple of minutes, then look back at Connor just as he’s standing. He raises an eyebrow at me as stay firmly in my seat. 

“Well, I don’t want to be too obvious, do I?” I mutter, glancing at the crowd of mostly men around us. “The last thing I want when we’re done is a round of applause.” The look Connor gives me tells me that might not be too horrible, in his humble opinion, but he doesn’t argue. Dropping a quick kiss on my cheek, he turns and strolls leisurely toward the restrooms. The second he’s out of sight, I stand and make my way up to the bar.

“Doc, I’m gonna need a couple more shots real quick.” 

Rocco eyes me curiously, noting that I’m not the steadiest as it is, but he shrugs as Doc sets the glasses in front of me. I finish both drinks in rapid succession, using the burn to help me keep a straight face, and ask for one more. 

A couple of minutes tick by, feeling like hours. I know Rocco’s asking me something, but I’ve gotten a bad case of the giggles (stress induced, surely). He sighs and shakes his head, which only makes me want to laugh harder, but I try to throttle down the giddiness. Several parts alcohol plus one part nervousness equals an overly tipsy me.

And a couple of the shots haven’t even hit me yet.

The key to this whole plan is timing. If either of them gets to the bathroom at just the wrong time and sees the other go in, they’ll be annoyed but mostly at each other. If their timing is right, but no one notices, then Connor and Murphy will be annoyed with me, and I’ll have to deal with consequences while getting little to no satisfaction.

If only there were some way to ensure maximum attention on them at just the right time without me being obviously involved…

“What the hell is wrong with you two perverts?! Go use your own bathroom for that shit!” 

Bingo.

The outraged, feminine exclamation is followed by the sounds of a scuffle that immediately draws the attention of most everyone in the bar. This is, after all, a crowd that is far too interested in drama. I’m slower than most to turn (the room is starting to get a little swimmy, so I should probably be careful), but I’m quick enough to see Connor and Murphy stumble to the floor, arms locked tightly around each other’s necks. I am more than delighted to see Murphy actually made it down to his undershirt, and his open belt smacks against the floor as Connor finally pins him face down.

Oh, this is so much better than I’d hoped.

Pretty much everyone is halfway between cheering them on and laughing at them, myself included. The last two shots have kicked in pretty hard, though, so my encouragement is probably a bit more enthusiastic and personal than is warranted, but damn, do those boys look good when they’re rolling around on the floor all sweaty and manly!

In my inebriated excitement, I lean forward a little too far, but my Rocco friend catches me just before my slip becomes a disaster.

“Let’s get ya turned around so you can lean on the bar, okay?” he sighs. 

“But watching Cononnor and Muphry wrestle is soooo much better than doing…other things!” I whine. My legs don’t seem willing to support me, which is confusing because I can’t think why they’d be acting like that, and anyway Rocco is helping, so I’m fine, really. “Wait….that didn’t sound right. Muphry…Muphy…Oh, I know! Murphy! Murphy and Cononnor! Rocco, can you get me a drink? I’m thirsty, and—”

“T’ink ye’ve had enough fer th’night, lass,” something growls right next to me head. I yelp and flail backwards right into a stone wall that catches me and keeps me from hitting the floor.

Connor tightens his grip on me, not painfully, just enough to keep me on my feet, as Murphy fastens his belt and shrugs his sweater over his head.

“Ye ferget somethin’, there, lass? Maybe an appointment y’might’ve overscheduled yerself for?”

My mouth’s kind of dry (I did just tell Rocco I was thirsty, did he not hear me?), so I try to swallow, but before I can answer, I burst into giggles at the glower on Murphy’s face. If I didn’t trust these two implicitly, that look might be a bit frightening. As it is, I’m thinking I’ll definitely need a little more liquid courage to make it through this night; plus, I’m still thirsty, so that definitely calls for another drink. I start to raise my arm to Doc again, but Connor spins me around to face him, and I’m more than a little dizzy from the sudden change in position. 

I’m face to face with Connor, our noses about three inches apart, and that vein in his forehead is standing out pretty emphatically. On the other hand, the corners of his eyes are crinkled, and I bet he’s trying not to laugh at Murphy, too. That look on his face is just priceless!

“Like Murphy said, t’ink ye’ve had enough fer t’night. Tis time t’turn in fer th’evenin’. I think we’re due at yer place t’night, yeah?”

I nod wordlessly, eyes wide at this sudden change of tactics. Shit. This means we’re leaving (mostly) neutral public territory. I’ll probably mostly enjoy whatever plots they have in store, but there’s no way they’re going to make this easy for me. I probably should have known better...

Nah, totally worth it.

As Connor goes to get my coat, I shoot a quick, apologetic look at Murphy. He snorts at my expression, shaking his head wearily. When I notice his zipper is undone, I have to cough quickly to choke back another laugh that’s threatening to erupt from my throat, but I can’t keep the giggles from leaking out.

His eyes narrow again, though he helps me stand as Connor attempts to assist a somewhat wobbly me into my coat. I can’t seem to get my arms to go into the right holes, which is so freaking hilarious I collapse against Murphy, hiccupping through my giggles.

“Don’t think pleading drunk will get ye outta what’s comin’ t’night, lass,” he growls in my ear, and even through the haze of alcohol surrounding my brain, my libido still remembers this is something to get excited about. I’m tired of trying to think everything through, so I simply grin and plant a smacking kiss right on his mouth.

“Yes, sir! Ready for appropriate punishment, sir! Lady’s room, or men’s room, sir?” I don’t even know what’s coming out of my mouth anymore, but I swear it’s the funniest shit I’ve heard in a while. Except…there was…Oh!

“Y’know, Murph, your sunglasses still smell like beer?”

The twins exchange a pointed look, then call out goodbyes to Roc and everyone over their shoulders as they drag me backwards toward the door. I blow a huge kiss to Rocco, grinning like an idiot as he laughs at us.

The cold rushes up around us as the boys lead me out into the night air, finally helping me to turn the right way around. I start off down the street, only to be taken in a firm grip by Connor and turned a complete 180.

“Y’said yer place t’night lass, remember?”

Oh, yeah. Woops.

As I trudge (or wobble, depends on which dictionary you use) between Connor and Murphy, I drag my feet a little then kick every few steps, sending snow flying up to meet the flakes that are floating down around us. 

Through the fog in my brain it belatedly occurs to me that no payback I’ve attempted has ever worked against the boys, and that honestly this one probably won’t turn out any different. I have a gem of an idea every now and then, but I swear they were born ready to drive anyone bat-shit crazy. 

Just as I have this epiphany, I feel the back of my coat collar pulled out, and I turn to Connor at the perfect time for Murphy to shove two giant fist-fulls of snow down my back. 

Still totally worth it.


End file.
